“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”
I’m here at the Navigator creating page templates for this year’s … er, navigator.
I’m also listening to Kurtis Blow. He fuckin’ sampled the Transformers theme. Why didn’t anyone tell me this before? Damn that’s the dope shit, yo.
I am loving the rain. I’m beginning to feel normal again. Less like that mummified cat Finkster and Brianibles had in the truck of that car.
Speaking of Finkables, I think I’m in denial she’s moving out. Best possible roommate ever!
On the upside, Chelsea’s moving in! So it’s hard to be too sad.
Chelsea and I bought a Monkey Friend. I purchased Kurtis Blow. I saw Sandeep. I found a photographer who will take fashion shots of The Clap. Hint: on Warf Street. I ate amazing extra hot curry at Baan Thai. We visted the wax museum. I could take George W. Bush, Napoleon, Hitler and Ghandi. Chelsea could take Mother Theresa and the teenage Queen Victoria… just by telling her no one likes her. She was sad looking. We neglected to pay the street performer magician guy. Chelsea for financial reasons, myself because I found him irritating. Chelsea liked his bad attitude and pirate voice.
“Adaptation” and “Punch Drunk Love” have reaffirmed my belief that I dislike movies about fucked up people getting defeated by life and winning small, trivial Pyrrhic victories in the end.
On the other hand it was the first time in years I’ve not wanted to vomit upon seeing Nick Cage’s face.
Chelsea seemed unimpressed with “The Last Starfighter.”
The DVD player was broken at work so we listened to the Fox all night. After 6 hours I was brainwashed into bobbing my head to the Chili Peppers.
Yesterday my knocked-up little cousin married her baby-daddy. It was raining and Chelsea and I were gleeful. I personally made no attempt to hide my glee. There were a lot of cowicahan goons there. And a lot of people I didn’t know. I had a mild panic attack. Chelsea and I sat at a table, by choice, with my ex-schizophrenic uncle and his cousin who is a 47 year old stuttering hospital orderly with a comb-over and a penchant for dates and times who lives with his mom and collects handguns. The wedding cake was a pyramid of cupcakes. A Diana Krall clone (only less manly) sang the processional and recessional. My aunt who is a minister in the United Church performed the ceremony. The groom’s father made a typical speech where he proclaimed he thought of the bride as his own daughter blah blah blah. He left out the part where he and his wife made their son break up with her because she wasn’t “religious enough” and threatened to disown him. Her mom being a minister doesn’t cut it. I spoke with another cousin of mine who is now executive producer of Smallville. He seems weary at the prospect of his three year contract. He used the words, “I’m trying to figure a way to get out of it. But they sue you if you try.” I hope he doesn’t because I really think The Clap should play at Superman’s highschool graduation (if they haven’t done that episode yet–I’ve never watched that show). This is the first time I’ve seen my family in two years.
JT scooped the LL vinyl from under me.
MacGregor and I went book shopping. I found a fantastic “Ninth Gate” style Satanic hardcover book from 1949 for a dollar. Exactly the sort of thing you hope you’ll find at Literacy Nanaimo but never do. Andrew was in good spirits. He’s really very pro-chicago.
Purchased coffee and onions.
“Pump Up The BasS” by DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince is a rather under-rated hip-hop side from ’88.